


Midnight Snack

by fluffy_waffle



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Body Image, Chubby Jaskier | Dandelion, Confident Jaskier | Dandelion, Feeding Kink, Geralt is very soft for his bard, Kink Discovery, M/M, Weight Gain, fat!Jaskier, so many belly rubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28617240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffy_waffle/pseuds/fluffy_waffle
Summary: After moving in with Jaskier, Geralt notices his fondness for late-night snacks and is only too happy to encourage him. Things get a bit out of hand.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 23
Kudos: 184
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	Midnight Snack

**Author's Note:**

> if you’re here for anything except kinky weight gain shenanigans, save yourself while you can and hit that back button

The bed creaked. Geralt cranked open an eye. His boyfriend was wriggling back under the blankets, clearly trying to do so surreptitiously, and not succeeding.

“Jaskier,” he grunted, voice thick with sleep, “what’re you —”

“Sorry!” Jaskier’s whisper was oddly high pitched. “Just needed a drink. Nice glass of water. Very refreshing. Hydration is so important. I didn’t mean to wake you up.” 

He pulled the covers over himself and turned over, facing away from Geralt. Geralt grunted again and threw an arm over the younger man, pulling him closer. His hand gravitated, as it usually did, to Jaskier’s round tummy, stroking it absentmindedly as he drifted back off to sleep. A tummy that, as it happened, had been getting an awful lot rounder recently.

The next morning, Jaskier made bacon sandwiches for breakfast, flitting around the kitchen and throwing Geralt anxious looks. Perhaps he thought Geralt might be mad about being woken up last night. 

In a lot of ways, things were still new between them. They had moved in together exactly three weeks ago and were still figuring things out. Jaskier got annoyed when Geralt left his gym clothes scattered around the house; Jaskier wasn’t as attentive to the washing up as Geralt would have liked; that sort of thing. But Geralt wasn’t worried. It might take them a bit of time to get all the kinks ironed out, but it would be worth it. He’d never lived with a partner before, but things just seemed to make sense with Jaskier.

But of all the things Geralt might have found annoying, being woken up wasn’t one of them. He was a pretty light sleeper, always alert to any strange movements or noises, so it was at least partly his fault. If Jaskier had a habit of getting up for a drink or to piss or to pace about or whatever, he could live with that. It was just another quirk of his that Geralt had learned about after moving in and would no doubt grow accustomed to.

Geralt polished off his bacon sandwiches easily enough, and was surprised that Jaskier seemed to be struggling with his. His free hand had gone to his plump stomach, rubbing at it, trying to soothe, in the way that Geralt had noticed he sometimes did when he’d eaten too much. But Geralt had, on more than one occasion, witnessed his boyfriend pack away absolutely obscene amounts of food, so to see him defeated by a lousy sandwich was a new one for him.

“Feeling alright?” he asked, concerned, and Jaskier nodded, his cheeks a little pink.

“Fine. Looks like I’m not as hungry as I thought.” He persevered and managed to polish off the rest of the sandwich though, Geralt observed.

It was pretty usual for Jaskier to eat a lot. He’d been a bit on the pudgy side when he and Geralt first got together, rather self-conscious about his curving hips and little pot belly. But endless nights of Geralt clutching onto those plush hips as he drove into him, or of peppering gentle kisses across that rounded middle, seemed to convince him that there was definitely no need to be self-conscious around _him._

After a year of dating, and of Jaskier growing more comfortable with his eating, those hips had certainly grown a little wider, and that pot belly a little larger. 

Geralt pulled his boyfriend into his lap and put a hand on his tummy, which was pressing up invitingly against Jaskier’s shirt, just begging to be touched. He didn’t bother being subtle; Jaskier knew of Geralt’s appreciation for his body in general and this area in particular. And he seemed to like being touched there, his eyelids fluttering as Geralt ran a gentle hand across his sensitive lower belly. 

“Pervert,” Jaskier told him primly, even as he squirmed in Geralt’s lap. Geralt gave the plump flesh a loving squeeze. 

*

As the weeks went on, Geralt noticed Jaskier getting up and returning to bed at decidedly odd times. It might be a five minute disappearance around midnight, or a lengthy absence around four a.m., so long that Geralt fell back asleep waiting for him. 

Once, he came back to bed with chocolate in the corner of his mouth.

And — okay. Maybe it shouldn’t have taken Geralt this long to work out what was going on. But he’d never claimed to be much of a detective. 

If Jaskier sometimes felt snacky in the night, that was nothing to Geralt. If his boyfriend was hungry, he should eat. But he didn’t want Jaskier to feel ashamed of it, which he presumably did if he was doing it in secret and lying about it afterwards. 

So he decided to address the matter head on.

The next time he found Jaskier’s side of the bed empty (at 12:45, the clock informed him) he pulled on a dressing gown and padded as quietly as he could down the stairs. Which probably wasn’t all that quietly — at six-two and an awful lot of muscle, Geralt wasn’t exactly built for stealth. 

Jaskier was sitting at the kitchen table with a packet of biscuits and a bright orange mug, attempting to project the image of a man who had simply wanted a cup of tea and one or two biscuits to accompany it. He looked a little flushed when Geralt stepped into the kitchen doorway, which suggested he had heard Geralt coming and tried to cover up what he was doing. 

“Geralt, what a surprise!” he said unconvincingly. “Biscuit?” He waved the packet of biscuits in Geralt’s direction. It was the only one in the vicinity, but Geralt suspected that, seconds before, there had been others.

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “Are you coming to bed?”

“I wasn’t —! Wait. Bed? Yes. Yes, of course.” He stood up hastily, and his lips formed a comical O of surprise as a few crumbs fluttered from his chest down onto the table. Geralt held his gaze. “Well, let’s go then,” Jaskier blustered, flapping his arms at Geralt and marching towards the door.

Geralt did not move from the doorway. “Jaskier.”

“Yes?” 

“Bring the biscuits.”

Upstairs, Jaskier dropped the biscuits on Geralt’s side of the bed, then attempted to get back under the blankets as if nothing had happened. Geralt was having none of it. He tugged a squawking Jaskier onto his lap and held him there, waiting until those blue eyes were ready to meet his.

“I am _exhausted_ , Geralt, I think we are both in dire need of some beauty sleep —”

He stopped abruptly as Geralt’s fingers slipped under his t-shirt, caressing his stomach. He was definitely full, Geralt thought, applying a little pressure and feeling firmness under the padding. 

Jaskier’s face glowed red in the dim light. “Fine, Geralt, just say it. I know I eat too much — and I definitely shouldn’t be eating at this time of night, god knows — and you’re so fit and perfect with your steamed veg and superfoods and protein shakes and — ” 

This was the last thing Geralt wanted; Jaskier didn’t need to be upset or embarrassed about this, and somehow he was making things worse. But talking about things wasn’t exactly Geralt’s specialty, and this feeling in particular, as he looked at Jaskier’s flushed cheeks, hands on his plump middle, stuffed full from his secret snacking — well, whatever _this_ was, it was difficult to put into words. It was unfamiliar, a little uncertain, but still it crackled through him, electric and fierce. 

So he kissed Jaskier until he was breathless, and squeezed his little belly until he moaned, and Geralt finally found the strength to say, “Eat.”

Jaskier’s eyes were dark. “Geralt…”

He shoved the packet of biscuits at Jaskier, suddenly very keen that he should devour the whole thing. “If you want them, you should have them.”

Jaskier hesitated, then bit into the first cookie, sickly-sweet, dipped in chocolate. 

“What else?” Geralt asked him, blindsided by his own sudden desperation, by the words that were coming from some part of him he wasn’t well-acquainted with. “Downstairs. What did you eat?” 

Jaskier swallowed, then shoved another cookie into his mouth. “Barely anything. Just a little snack. Tiny!”

“Tell me.”

“Some toast,” Jaskier said shakily, grabbing another two cookies, “with peanut butter. The leftover pasta from dinner. And then I was going to have these for afterwards. It wasn’t that much.”

“Not much?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier shifted in his lap, and could surely feel how hard Geralt was. “Not much if you hadn’t eaten all day. But you had plenty for dinner. Plenty before dinner too, I’d bet.”

“I know, I know, I was just — hungry,” Jaskier gasped. 

Once he’d made it through the last of the cookies, Geralt gave an honest-to-god _growl_ and flipped him onto his back. Jaskier groaned with fullness, and then with relief as Geralt finally gave his desperate cock some attention. Because as it turned out, Geralt wasn’t the only one who apparently got off on this.

*

“This is so typically _you_ ,” Jaskier said crossly, hands on his wide hips, glaring at Geralt across the kitchen. “We had the weirdest sex of our lives last night, and you don’t think we need to talk about it.” 

Geralt shrugged. His ears were feeling rather hot. They probably did need to talk about it, but he wasn’t sure he physically _could._

“Pancakes?” he asked, indicating the large stack he’d made for Jaskier.

Jaskier glared at him for another moment, then sat down with a little huff and pulled the plate towards him. He chopped up a banana to go on top and drizzled over a generous amount of chocolate syrup. 

Still rather full from the previous night’s antics, he began to struggle halfway through the substantial pile. He let a hand fall to his tummy, and Geralt was immediately at his side, crouching down, reaching out to rub it himself.

“ _No_ ,” Jaskier told him firmly, batting his hands away. He set down his fork with a clatter, at least half the pancakes remaining. 

Geralt looked up at him, wounded.

“Give me _words,_ Geralt. Explain to me what last night was, and I — I’ll eat the rest of these.” Even as he was trying to be stern, his cheeks had started to blush.

Geralt’s mouth felt dry. “Last night was…” Incredible? Electrifying? Absolutely fucking bizarre? “... nice. I liked it.”

“High praise indeed.” Jaskier looked put out. 

“I really liked it, Jas,” Geralt said quietly. He looked up guiltily into those blue eyes. “Did you? Like it?”

Jaskier’s expression softened, just a smidgen. “I did.” His gaze dropped to the pancakes, syrup oozing down the sides. He picked up his fork and began to dig in again. 

Geralt watched for a moment, every hair on his body standing on end. His hand hovered in the air, almost shaking with want, until Jaskier grabbed it and placed it firmly on his belly.

“Feels good,” he said, struggling through the last pancake, as Geralt’s fingers kneaded into his tight stomach.

“Yeah.” Geralt paused, pressing a kiss to the crest of his tummy. “Fuck, it does.” 

*

They fell into an easy routine of ridiculous overeating and frantic, fantastic sex. Frankly, Geralt couldn’t believe they hadn’t been doing this all along.

Jaskier, unsurprisingly, became the biggest tease imaginable — strutting around in shorts that had fit nicely a few months ago but now were strained over his growing rear, lounging around in tight shirts that showed off every roll and curve of his middle. 

He ate a little more at mealtimes than he previously would have, and Geralt cooked him more decadent breakfasts and brought home more treats than he would have thought to do previously. But the main change was in Jaskier’s nighttime snacking. 

“I’m a little peckish,” he’d say, clambering out of bed when they had already settled down for the night, and he’d return with a box of fudge, a sharing bag of crisps and a large glass of milk. 

“I’ll be up in a minute,” he’d tell Geralt airily, heading to the kitchen while Geralt hurried upstairs to wait for him, and he’d bring a feast of sandwiches and sausage rolls back to bed and happily work his way through the lot.

Geralt still woke to an empty bed every now and again. On these nights, he’d head downstairs to find his boyfriend struggling over a pint of ice cream or half a cheesecake or two servings of meatballs he’d warmed up in the microwave. Geralt would tell him to finish it with that customary gruff encouragement of his, and rub his belly when he was full to bursting, and once even carried him back to bed when Jaskier insisted he simply _couldn’t_ manage all those stairs with half a lasagna inside him.

His appetite was growing, Geralt noted with delight, and his waistline along with it.

“You … lord, it seems daft to even ask this, given everything we’ve been doing…” Jaskier said one afternoon, leaning back against the kitchen counter, a posture that made his middle look even more prominent than usual. “But … you do like me this way, don’t you?” 

A hand was resting on the curve of his stomach, perhaps a little self-conscious, or perhaps simply soothing, as it so often was. It was even more rounded than usual at the moment; they’d ordered pizza for lunch and he’d enjoyed a large meat feast to himself. 

Geralt, who’d been finding space in the fridge for his leftover slices of margherita, abandoned his task and was at Jaskier’s side in an instant.

“You think I don’t?” he said, voice low, eyes dark.

“Well…” Jaskier patted his ample stomach. “It may have slipped your attention, but I’ve gained some weight recently. The reason why is an absolute mystery! But the fact remains there’s, ah, rather a lot more of me than there used to be.”

“Up,” Geralt told him, voice still low and rumbling, and he set his hands at Jaskier’s soft hips to help him up onto the counter. With his boyfriend sitting on the kitchen sideboard, and his boyfriend’s stomach at a more convenient height, Geralt pulled his t-shirt up to get a better look. The lower roll of his tummy pooched out over the waistband of his sweatpants, sitting low to accommodate the swell of his underbelly. He was spilling out at the sides, too, growing wider in all directions, plump love handles sitting where once there had been only small pockets of chub. He’d always been adorably round, but now the weight really was popping up everywhere, the new pounds enticingly soft. 

“I’ll take that as a yes?” Jaskier queried, watching Geralt drink him in. “You’re on board with this, then?”

“Of course,” Geralt told him, almost scolding, as though it was a ridiculous question. He ran a hand reverently over the roll under his chest. “So beautiful, Jaskier.” He cleared his throat. “So fucking soft.” 

His hand slid upwards, thumbing over a nipple, which peaked at the attention. “Softer here, too,” he murmured, examining the new weight on his boyfriend’s chest, his touch feather-light. 

“And that’s a good thing, yes?” Jaskier inquired, although by this point he hardly needed the confirmation. He wrapped his legs around Geralt’s waist, and Geralt picked him up as though he weighed nothing, carrying him off in order to throw him down somewhere more comfortable.

*

“Triss and Yennefer are back in town,” Jaskier informed him when he got home, as though this was the best news a man could dream of. 

Geralt didn’t question why Jaskier had been told this and not him. Triss and Yennefer might be _his_ oldest friends, but it was entirely possible they only still hung out with him because of Jaskier. And, of course, Jaskier was more likely to answer his phone rather than leaving their messages unread for days.

“Oh?”

“They’ve invited us for dinner on Friday. I’ve already accepted. It will be marvelous,” Jaskier said cheerily, while Geralt rolled his eyes.

Anything that involved being in public, surrounded by loud, irritating human beings, was not Geralt’s idea of a good time. He had space for exactly one loud, irritating creature in his life, and that spot was firmly occupied by Jaskier. 

“By the way,” Jaskier continued, apparently not requiring Geralt’s agreement about their social plans, “there’s a chance that they know. About, um, the kinky shit we’ve been getting up to.”

Geralt, halfway through kicking off his shoes, nearly fell over. “What? You _told_ them?”

“Not exactly.” Jaskier waved a hand, unconcerned. “They guessed.”

“How?”

“What do you mean, how? I’m not exactly as svelte as I used to be, you know.” Jaskier preened, giving his middle a fond pat. Geralt narrowed his eyes. “They asked some questions and I let them draw their own conclusions.”

Geralt wasn’t sure how he felt about Yennefer and Triss _drawing conclusions_ about his sex life, but Jaskier’s utter nonchalance about the matter was reassuring. He seemed more assured about things in general these days, Geralt had noticed. He seemed secure in what they were doing, secure in his body, secure in Geralt’s feelings for him. This was wonderful to see, and it gave Geralt more certainty in everything too.

He sat down, and Jaskier plopped onto his lap, his plump tummy pushing confidently between them. Geralt had a sudden image of a Jaskier so heavy and round that they would no longer be able to sit like this, that one day he would climb onto Geralt’s lap only to find he couldn’t fit. The thought alone was enough to make him deepen the kiss Jaskier had leaned in for, and Jaskier gave a pleased squeak of surprise as Geralt’s large hands squeezed his ass.

*

“Jaskier, you look ravishing,” Yennefer cooed when she set eyes on him, kissing him once on each cheek, before Triss pulled him into a tight hug. 

“You look nice too, Geralt,” she added as an afterthought, which was oddly galling considering they had actually slept together more than once. (A long time ago. Both of them agreed it had been a mistake. Jaskier and Triss still liked to giggle about it after a few G&Ts.) 

The restaurant Triss had chosen for the meal was uncomfortably fashionable, with low mood lighting and drinks in weird glasses and stupid little candles everywhere, not exactly the sort of place Geralt would have chosen to spend his Friday night. Still, the best and the worst thing about the evening proved to be watching Jaskier pack away endless plates of tapas. 

“We’ll order plenty to share,” Triss had beamed at them all, and, if Geralt wasn’t mistaken, casting a cheeky look at Jaskier. “We can’t have anyone going hungry.”

He lapped up the attention, as was his way. “It takes rather a lot to satisfy me these days, I will admit. I insist we get the chorizo, a table over there ordered it and it looks perfectly _divine_ …”

He wasn’t even eating that much, not by his usual standards, respecting the fact that they were in public and surrounded by their friends. So perhaps he didn’t realize how goddamn excruciating Geralt was finding the entire thing, focusing furiously on his own plate rather than watching his boyfriend scoff down another bowl of patatas bravas, wondering if he could sneak off to the bathroom for a quick jerk off or whether that would be too pathetic. 

While Triss and Jaskier chatted earnestly about some pretentious indie band they were both into, Yennefer tapped Geralt on the shoulder. “More drinks,” she said, in that voice that left no room for disagreement. “Geralt and I will go.”

“Ooh, can you get me a pina colada?” Jaskier asked, flashing Geralt a quick smirk, as though Geralt would be able to refuse him anything, now or ever. “And, Yen, if there’s the option of a little umbrella, don’t let Mr Grumpy say no.” 

Geralt sighed, and Yennefer dragged him towards the bar.

“He’s looking healthy,” she commented, watching their respective partners back at the table. “Twins, is it?”

Geralt didn’t need words for this; he glared daggers at her, sharp and icy over the empty glasses on the bar between them.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said, unrepentant. “He looks good.”

“He does,” Geralt said firmly.

“He also looks like he might be pregnant. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”

Geralt had known her long enough to recognize when she was being insulting, and this wasn’t one of those times. Jaskier was being so blasé about the whole thing that she had clearly taken this as permission to tease, though it was notable that she had chosen Geralt to tease about it rather than him. 

She continued, “It makes sense for you, I must say. I knew you must be absolutely filthy in secret, Geralt.”

Geralt glared at her to try and mask his astonishment, and his discomfort, and also maybe a strange tingling excitement he didn’t want to focus on too much right now.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She unlocked her phone and showed him a group chat with herself, Triss and Jaskier. He had sent them a selfie, the angle showcasing his chubbier cheeks and padded chin, and it even contained the upper curve of his belly, rounding out noticeably under his softer chest. Jaskier had gotten heavier since taking that photo, Geralt noticed.

The picture was accompanied by a charming message: _So heads up, I got really fat._

Triss had responded: _You always look hot Jaskier_

A little further down, Yennefer had written: _Bet Geralt loves it_

Jaskier had not admitted this in words, as such, but had replied by means of several emojis with heart-eyes, a few burgers and some ice cream cones. Yennefer, for some reason, had responded with a row of eggplants.

It was hugely embarrassing to think about Jaskier discussing this with Yennefer and Triss. Although, not as unpleasantly embarrassing as Geralt might have expected. Interesting.

And it was nice to see further proof of Jaskier’s confidence in what they were doing, and the sweetly supportive messages Triss had sent in return, the snarkily supportive ones from Yen. For Geralt, what they were doing was easy enough to hide completely, if he chose. Jaskier didn’t have that option, carrying the evidence of it on his body, in public as well as in private. 

“The pair of you seem sickeningly happy, so there’s that,” Yennefer added, taking a sip of the bourbon the bartender passed her. 

Geralt scowled at her for good measure, and headed back to the table. He presented Jaskier with his drink (complete with little umbrella) and let a hand rest briefly on his leg under the table, giving his soft thigh a gentle squeeze.

“It was nice to see them,” Jaskier said sleepily, once they were back home, leaning heavily against Geralt. “I’d almost forgotten how much fun they are.”

“You would say that. They spent the whole evening throwing compliments at you.”

Jaskier chuckled, snuggling into Geralt’s shoulder. “They are women of excellent taste.” 

Geralt grunted his agreement. He stroked along Jaskier’s softening jawline, cupped his cheek with one calloused hand. 

“Might have a snack.” Jaskier yawned. He stretched like a cat, shirt riding up his lower belly with the movement, showcasing the spidery stretchmarks that Geralt loved, a delicate pattern of pink and silver.

He looked so sweet and soft that Geralt immediately offered, “I’ll get you something.”

Jaskier gave an _mmm_ of appreciation, eyes closed, curled up on the couch. He perked up when Geralt presented him with a plate of cinnamon buns, which he unfurled from their scrolls to eat, licking the frosting off his sticky fingers while Geralt pressed gentle kisses down his neck.

*

One night, Geralt woke to small fists prodding at his back.

“Geralt?”

He considered ignoring him.

“Are you awake?”

Geralt rolled over with a groan. “Apparently.”

As his vision adjusted to the darkness, he could make out Jaskier gazing at him, wide-eyed.

“What, Jaskier?” he grunted.

“I’m hungry.”

Geralt went instinctively to where Jaskier’s stomach was resting on the bed between them. He usually slept like this, on his side, with his belly supported by the mattress; he was too round now to sleep on his front, and if he went to bed stuffed full, as he so often did, it was uncomfortable to sleep on his back too (he complained about both these things regularly, not that it had any impact on his eating habits). The position worked nicely in Geralt’s favor, as it meant his boyfriend’s tummy was always in easy reach of his eager fingers. 

His hand met stretched fabric and warm skin where Jaskier’s belly was peeking out the bottom of his shirt. “You’re always hungry.”

Jaskier pouted at him in the darkness. “Don’t be mean, Geralt.”

Jaskier continued to look at him expectantly, and his sleepy brain eventually caught up. “Oh.” He gave Jaskier’s belly a firm pat, and Jaskier began to squirm. “You expect me to go and get you something.”

“Please. It’s cold,” Jaskier whined. 

“You’ll be warmer,” Geralt pointed out. “More insulation.”

Jaskier huffed, wrapping an arm around his stomach protectively. “Geralt!”

Geralt sighed. He pushed Jaskier onto his back and threw a leg over him, positioning himself on top. Jaskier was so fucking _delicious_ underneath him, soft and spoiled and squirming beneath his touch. “Brat,” Geralt told him lovingly. “Fine. What do you want?”

“Cheese,” he said immediately. “And something sweet for afterwards.”

Geralt kissed him, long and slow and agonizing, before heading downstairs to find something that would satisfy his little glutton. He came back with a tray of crackers and cheese (brie and cheddar and stilton), a small lemon cake (around enough for six people) topped with a sweet icing and filled with a thick curd, and a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows. 

Jaskier had sat up in bed, propped up against the headboard. He was checking his phone with one hand, and the other had gravitated to his stomach, as it did so often these days. Geralt wondered if he even realized he was doing it. His too-small shirt had rucked up even further, his plump lower belly sitting comfortably in his lap, his fingers prodding absently into the softness.

He looked pleased by what Geralt had brought him, immediately tucking into the brie and declaring that Geralt was “really quite useful sometimes, not an entirely terrible boyfriend”. Geralt listened to him chatter on between mouthfuls, petting his tummy as it got progressively fuller, watching him eat and eat and eat. 

He began to slow once he moved on to the cake, Geralt cutting it into slices for him and feeding him the last couple by hand. Jaskier looked fit to burst by the end of it. As always, his late-night snacks came after a day of eating well; he’d devoured a rich steak pie for tea only a few hours before, and all of that goodness sat heavy in his stomach. Geralt loved seeing him like this, sated and content, utterly indulged, wanting for nothing. 

“Had enough?” he asked, setting the empty tray aside. He would go downstairs again for more, if Jaskier asked him to. He would go to the fucking _moon_ if Jaskier wanted it.

“Lord, yes.” He made a small sound of discomfort, and Geralt kissed his round cheek, told him how beautiful he was, how well he’d done, and pumped both their cocks until they came with a grunt and a cry. Afterwards, he helped Jaskier get comfortable in bed, as he wriggled around like a beetle on its back, struggling with the heavy food and fat that was weighing him down.

He stroked Jaskier’s soft hair in the darkness, and found himself whispering, “I really like this, Jas.”

It wasn’t enough, he knew that. He didn’t have the words that Jaskier deserved, didn’t know how to say how incredible these last few months had been, how incredible Jaskier was, how much all of this meant to him.

Jaskier gave a huffing little laugh. “I know, Geralt.” He laid a hand on Geralt’s, where it was resting on his padded hip. “I like it too.”

*

One morning, after another of Jaskier’s frequent late-night banquets, Geralt couldn’t get over how _big_ his boyfriend was looking these days. 

“You’re staring,” Jaskier informed him. His belly, propped up like a beach ball before him, was gurgling from its exertions a few hours before, which had involved a blueberry pie and half a pint of ice cream around 5 a.m. He petted it absently, trying to soothe its complaining.

“Do you know what you weigh?” Geralt blurted out. “Have you weighed yourself since…”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You’d be interested in the exact number, would you? That’s part of this, for you?”

Even now, Geralt’s instinct was to go silent when Jaskier wanted to talk about this _thing_ they were doing in plain, honest terms. But he knew that he should try, and that Jaskier deserved it, so he said hesitantly, “I would like it. If you’re alright with it.” 

Jaskier was wearing a pleased little smirk. “Then let’s do it.”

Geralt started to get out of bed. “I have a scale.”

Jaskier squawked at him. “You want me to weigh myself _now?”_

“Why not?”

“Geralt, I ate an entire pie and a tub of ice cream last night. We should wait a while for things to, you know, get back to normal.” His tummy gurgled unhappily, as if to prove his point.

If Jaskier wanted to wait for a time when he hadn’t recently eaten, they would be waiting a very long time indeed. “You could skip breakfast,” Geralt suggested. “Lunch, too. Then weigh yourself this afternoon.”

“Well, let’s not be _silly_ , Geralt,” Jaskier grumbled, and agreed that, fine, they could do it now.

Geralt brought the scale into the bedroom, because their bathroom was a little cramped at the best of times, particularly with both his broad build and Jaskier’s tubby form trying to squeeze in there together.

Jaskier looked unconcerned as he pulled off the t-shirt he’d worn to bed. Geralt admired the sight of him, pale and creamy in the soft sunlight peeking through the curtains, his thick arms and dimpled thighs, the little buds sitting plump on his chest, the way his cute pot belly had given way to soft rolls, hanging low over his boxers. 

He stepped onto the scale, peered down, then stepped quickly off again, brow furrowed. “This isn’t very well designed,” he complained. “It’s clearly not made for people with big tummies. You’d better look too.” 

He laid a hand on the widest part of said tummy, and Geralt realized that he was struggling to see the scale over the crest of it. Geralt felt weak at that, gazing down as instructed when Jaskier stepped back on. 

“281,” Geralt said, stunned. He found that he enjoyed saying the number out loud. “How much did you weigh … before?”

“Before you started fattening me up, you mean? I’m not sure. I was about 180 when we got together. I was still a bit chubby then, as you may recall.”

So that was 100 pounds in around two years. “Fuck, Jas,” Geralt breathed, completely unable to say anything more profound, unable to do anything except grab Jaskier by his plush hips and pull him in for a kiss.

“You seem surprised.” Jaskier sounded amused.

Geralt didn’t know how to put what he was feeling into words. “Are you?”

Jaskier laughed. “I knew the number was going to be big. I’m the one carrying all of this around, after all. And let me tell you, I _feel_ like I weigh nearly 300 pounds.”

If 281 had been nice to hear out loud, the idea of _300_ was dizzying. He stroked down Jaskier’s plump sides, looking earnestly into his blue eyes. “And that’s okay with you?”

“Geralt, can we please just agree that we’re both very fucking into this,” Jaskier said primly.

Geralt squeezed his sides gently and smiled down at him. Jaskier made a contended sort of noise, and then declared, “I’m feeling peckish.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “After all that pie?”

“Oh, shush. Are you going to get me something or not?”

He was. Of course he fucking was. 

“I’m not sure what we’ve got in,” Geralt told him. “The kitchen’s struggling to keep up with your appetite lately.”

“Well, in that case, we need to go shopping more often.” Jaskier looked haughty. “Unless you would like me to go hungry.”

Geralt growled in his throat. “We can’t have that.” He took hold of his boyfriend’s hips and directed him against the wall, pressing their bodies together, soft blubber against firm muscle. “How about bagels? I’ll go to that bakery down the road, grab some bagels and coffee.”

“And donuts. Their donuts are fantastic, Geralt.”

“And donuts,” Geralt agreed.

“Some with the chocolate cream in the middle. And the ones with the strawberry sprinkles. And a few glazed ones, just to be safe.”

“Spoiled brat,” Geralt told him, and Jaskier’s face was pink with pleasure. He settled back in bed, pampered as a housecat, and Geralt headed out to bring him his breakfast.


End file.
